


spriggans and triads

by am doing a breakthrough science (acceptnosubstitutes)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Fluff, Frenemies, Gift Fic, Multi, Prompt Fill, alcohol use, spriggans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceptnosubstitutes/pseuds/am%20doing%20a%20breakthrough%20science
Summary: One Exarch. One Warrior of Light. One unsundered Ascian. And one (1) spare Pendants room.Wine, sugary treats and late night conversation. Oh my.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12
Collections: Bookclub Winter Fic Exchange 2020





	spriggans and triads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedreamerdelta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedreamerdelta/gifts).



> Prompt was: "emet-selch/wol/exarch fluff with no angst because it’s all hawk’s fault and now I want these tired overworked idiots to be happy. no Christmas/starlight themed things but everything else is fair game."
> 
> I hope this suits! Exarch isn't a strong suit but I tried, aha.

Light seeps from underneath the door, illuminating the otherwise magically darkened corridor. Perhaps a vain use of the crystal tower's energy Exarch must admit. But to offer the Crystarium's residents what little comfort he may in the face of ever dawning day, he shoulders the power drain as if it were nothing.

Exarch adjusts his burden, reaching up to rap lightly on the Warrior of Light's - or is it Darkness now that he prefers - inn room door.

Light gives way to a shadow. Pausing underneath the door only briefly before moving away. Exarch thinks he hears a voice, too muffled to make out words and another in answer.

Has he interrupted a friendly gathering?

He turns to depart, given pause by the clumsy turn of a door knob. Pendant rooms open outward by matter of happenstance, giving him precious seconds to fumble for words.

Apologize for the intrusion. Smile. Offer S'idos his gift. Retire to his chambers.

Except the door offers weak protection against light pitiful in comparison to the Flood. Yet Exarch ducks his head regardless, ironically accustomed to darkness in his long winded battle of to knock or not to knock. And when he glances up, all thoughts of words flee.

S'idos stands in the doorway, yes. Hale and hearty, leaning out of the room toward him with a merry grin. Exarch's eyes are drawn to his ears, twitching in more fervor than he has ever seen. The tap-tap of long fingers on wood, used to lightly sway the warrior's body back and forth across the threshold. His tail flicks up in pleased, lazy greeting toward Exarch, then curls loosely around a leg.

The flush on S'idos' cheeks speaks of alcohol, a state only echoed by that of his attire. Gone the hat he normally wears into battle, though Exarch might find it passing strange he keeps wearing it this late hour. His two-toned red and yellow hair, usually somewhat wildly fanned out at the crown (like a chocobo's nest, Thancred joked once, if chocobos in fact made nests) sticks up in all directions. Like someone stuck their hand in his hair without care for mess.

His usual battle gear, disheveled as well. S'idos lacks the pauldron usually strapped across his left shoulder and the gray half cloak alongside. His brown waistcoat, already cut swooping low, top two clasps undone. Still wears his bracer on his left wrist, but the black leather thong normally bound up in the billowing sleeve on his right and glove, conspicuous in their absence. The white shirt itself rumpled and wrinkled.

S'idos' hand swims in fabric, running a hand through his hair. Perhaps in an attempt to marshall it into some order.

"Exarch! Ah," he says, sheepish, "heh. This is, uh, a little awkward."

Exarch opens his mouth to ask why, smoothly interrupted by a superior, very familiar voice.

"More gauche than attempting strip poker on triple triad cards, dear warrior? I think not."

Emet-Selch.

S'idos makes a face. Leans out and around the other man, like there might be anyone else out this late. Exarch barely reigns in a surprised squawk, finding hands fisting in his robes and yanking him into the room. The door clicks shut behind them.

"Ah, yeah," S'idos says, releasing him and rubbing the side of his head, "like I said. Awkward?"

Exarch glances across the room, catching sight of the ascian at the table. Cleared of its usual accoutrements for a smattering of cards and a collection of dark tinted wine bottles, several seemingly emptied already.

Emet-Selch sits sideways in a chair, half leaning into the table, elbow dropped on its surface, methodically shedding gloves one finger at a time. He's less undressed than S'idos except that Exarch can't fathom a time he's seen the ascian out of his ostentatious coats. The fuller of which drapes over the chair behind him.

Clad in white and red tunic underneath, he seems thinner. Older.

S'idos hums, drawing Exarch's attention back to him. Seems surprised he isn't voicing shock or some form of outrage. But to be honest among ascians, Emet-Selch ranks more curious than most. This marks far from the first time he's shown his face in the Crystarium. Even before S'idos and his friends began arriving on the First.

Once divested of both gloves the ascian places them in the middle of a growing pile of personal effects. Mostly belonging to S'idos, aside from the ascian's half-jacket mixed in with the warrior's gear.

Emet-Selch grips a bottle by its stem and tips it back to his lips, downing a considerable portion.

"My apologies for the rudeness of my interruption," Exarch begins, then pauses. "Triad cards are four sided. How would such a game function?"

Emet-Selch raises the bottle in his direction.

"By round, dearest Exarch. As I am one well versed in many games, even one this childish."

S'idos crosses the room to make grabby fingers at the bottle.

"S'fun when you don't have a stick up your ass."

And Emet-Selch actually rolls his eyes at him, but leans one long arm out. Their fingers brush in passing, S'idos not even bothering to wipe the lid before tilting it to his lips.

Like an indirect kiss.

Offers the bottle next to a startled Exarch.

"Thirsty?"

Emet-Selch raises one lofty eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. Slow spreading, unfurling smirk. A clear challenge.

Not normally one Exarch would take from an enemy, curious as he or not. But then, S'idos beseeches him. Earnest. Sloshes the remnants of alcohol to and fro and _by the twelve_ the things he would still do for this miqo'te's smile.

Exarch takes a much milder sip than either his companions. Rolls the weight of the liquid on his tongue. He picks up first on the bright, crisp notes of fresh apple underlined by a faint caramel sweetness.

The longer the alcohol lingers, vanilla. Aromatic - rich and creamy, tones of smoke. And at the end a bite of spicy sweet, velvet smooth pear.

Exarch closes his eyes. Swallows. Really, a fine vintage.

His reaction draws an amused huff from Emet-Selch. An exclamation of delight out of S'idos, who finally seems to notice the package Exarch holds under his arm, which he offers to the warrior with a smile.

"For me? What's the occasion?"

As the pair draw closer to the table, Emet-Selch resettles elbow on table, pillowing a cheek in one palm. The curve of his smirk disappears into his skin yet only grows, somehow.

"Oh, do inform the room, Exarch."

Knowingly. Or is that Exarch attributing meaning to an inscrutable entity?

The drag of wood startles him out of his thoughts. S'idos plops into the chair immediately to the left of Emet-Selch, patting its twin beside him.

Exarch sits.

"Ah. I seem to recall Miss Aliasie mentioned your fondness for apple strudel," he tells S'idos, ignoring a snort from beyond them. "I simply thought you might enjoy a taste of home, after your wearying journey across the rift."

Unwraps his bundle, revealing what look like three little dolloped dumplings, oddly soot shaded in color. Shaped in an almost teardrop body, big bushy "bristles" extend from their "heads" like bunny ears, affixed with yellow coated chocolate pieces as some sort of barrettes. Simple, childlike faces too, of the same yellow and red chocolate complete the look.

"Spriggans," says Emet-Selch. "How amusing."

At the same time S'idos scoops one up carefully and laughs.

"It's adorable! I love them."

"We call the confectionery zefir," Exarch explains, "not quite the same, I'm told. But made from a variety of apple and apricot endemic to the First. All edible. In case you were wondering."

He needn't be concerned. S'idos has already taken a bite out of one of the spriggan's ears halfway through the explanation. What he does next, however, surprises. Takes the other ear off and breaks it neatly in half, offering one end to Emet-Selch and the other to Exarch. Thrusts the sugary treat at both when neither immediately moves to take it from him.

"Hmm," murmurs Emet-Selch, though he pops his half into his mouth and bites down. "The lengths I yet traverse for you, hero. You'd almost believe we weren't enemies."

Not to be outdone, Exarch accepts his own piece and chews on it at a slower pace.

"Do not think," he tells the ascian, leaving S'idos to his treats, "the passage of time fails to reflect upon you as well, Emet-Selch. I see it thus in the slump of your frame. The shadows, had I not known them to be paint, would I believe scored round your eyes."

Emet-Selch hums his agreement, much to Exarch's surprise. Fixes him a considering, side-long look, cheek still in hand.

"If I may offer but a morsel of advice in turn?"

Warily, Exarch nods.

"This 'Crystarium,' that you have built," waves his free hand vaguely through the air, perhaps meant to encompass all outside the room, "from the ground up, yes? Over the endless march of years. Maintaining this all, even with assistance, wears at a soul."

The ascian drops his arm, shrugs. 

"It shan't all crumble to dust should you pause for breath, now and again."

Exarch wonders if Emet-Selch might not be a bit drunk himself even if his pale face barely shows flush. The ascian's gold eyes slant his way and Exarch realizes, with a start, he must have been staring.

He opens his mouth to apologize. Force of habit, even before an ascian. Interrupted only by the dull, boneless slump of S'idos finally nodding off at the table. At least he finished his zefir before taking a nap among the crumbs.

Emet-Selch sighs. Pushes up out of his chair and shuffles over to his side.

"At long last," he mutters.

Like he was just waiting for the warrior's impressive endurance to finally give out. He maneuvers S'idos back against his arm, getting the other under his knees. Surely some form of magic involved in how he barely grunts at hefting the miqo'te into a bridal carry, sweeping him away and towards the bed.

Turns his head Exarch's way.

"Well? Light everlasting or nay, would ill do for our hero to freeze ere the final curtain drops."

Exarch glances to the neatly made bed, catching his meaning quickly. And after laying S'idos under the sheets, Emet-Selch leaves Exarch to tuck him into sleep. 

Which he does, making sure both sheets and comforter snug up to his chest. Weather off nearby water sources generally mild aside, nights in the Crystarium do sometimes stir up a chill. The last thing S'idos needs now is the sniffles to accompany his hangover in the morning.

Emet-Selch has regained his coats by the time he finishes. If Exarch took the extra time to remove S'idos' boots, pistol belt and ammunition and the altogether ridiculously complicated bracer well. Hardly comfortable slumberware, yes? That he also smooths his flyaway hair behind one ear, lightly scritching along soft, downy fur does not go unnoticed by the ascian.

S'idos rumbles a purr in his sleep, rolling over his side toward them. Emet-Selch's hum, in turn, sounds amused. But mellowed. Soft.

Exarch turns in time to catch the subtle whirring intake of magic sparking amidst the air. And Emet-Selch steps through a portal of darkness, waggling his fingers and that ever bedevilling smirk vanishing in his wake.

Exarch shakes his head. Nothing for it but to clear the messy table before heading to his own rest. Hardly fair to leave to the morning cleaning crew.

He pauses upon catching sight of white amongst S'idos' more muted, earthy toned equipment. 

The ascian's white. Folded neatly atop S'idos' singular black archer's glove. 

Forgotten? Or left behind?

Conspicuously missing from the pile on a second glance, S'idos' half-cloak. Nowhere to be found. Nothing that would hamper him in battle, oh no. 

But certainly far more noticeable absent than a stray leather band.

Exarch chuckles. "Curious, indeed."

He shouldn't encourage this. At the end of it all, there is but one way, one path. And yet.

And yet.

The ringbands on his left arm, then. After all, best stick with their chosen theme. Exarch flexes the fingers of his left hand, slowly unraveling the leather straps until he can slide them off altogether.

Leaves the bands draped over white and black. For next time.


End file.
